


Brotherly Love

by XBlueWrenX



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2020-03-01 15:39:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18803269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XBlueWrenX/pseuds/XBlueWrenX
Summary: Sherlock always thought Mycroft came around when he needed something. But, when he comes around of his own will, Sherlock suddenly remembers that today is a special day, and for once in his life, he heads out with Mycroft... to visit a graveyard. But can he let his emotions show? Just for his brother? Fluffy one-shot.





	Brotherly Love

**Author's Note:**

> I have always been inspired by fanfics where there are scenes of Sherlock and Mycroft's brotherly moments. And Hekate's 'Made Weak By Time and Fate, But Strong In Will' pushed me that little bit further to write this short one-shot. The brotherly scene in chapter 9 was just so cute and fluffy and inspiring, and even though it was an AU story, they were still brothers so it still counts. You should definitely read it. And that's how I got here. This site had changed my life, in more ways than I can say and I am forever in the debt of the people who take their time to review and just talk to me online. Thank you.
> 
> Post-reunion (after Reichenbach).
> 
> Minor spoilers for Reichenbach. The only difference to season 3 and onwards is that Sherlock and Mycroft's mother is dead.
> 
> Disclaimer: the characters and the settings are owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the wonderful creators of Sherlock, but the storyline is original.
> 
> Also posted on FanFiction.net
> 
> Enjoy!

Sherlock knew, as soon as Mycroft turned up, that something was different about him. He didn't move with as much urgency as he did when he needed help or wanted to talk about important business, like always. But instead, he walked much slower and more peacefully than usual, and Sherlock almost bumped into him when he was heading out of the door; he hadn't heard his brother's footsteps coming up the stairs. Mycroft didn't even seem worried or concerned about work, but about him.

"Are you in a rush, Sherlock?" he asked, hoping that he would let him inside. Sherlock was amazed; he was sure he hadn't heard his brother say his name since, well, a long time ago. He always had fun annoying him by saying 'brother, dear' or 'brother, mine' like an old person. Which he was, anyway.

Sherlock didn't say a word, just sighed, though not as harshly as he used to whenever Mycroft barged in before. Though he wasn't exactly barging in right now. He probably wouldn't even stop him from carrying on his business and walking right out of the door, but he decided to stay. For curiosity's sake, of course.

"Something you need?" Sherlock asked as he picked up his violin and started to pluck the strings quietly. They never visited each other unless they wanted something. Sherlock had never been to Mycroft's mansion, not since he wanted help getting off the drugs, though he hadn't really been much help.

John looked out from the kitchen puzzled. Sherlock was supposed to be in a cab and on his way to Lestrade and his team at a crime scene right now, not still in the apartment, chatting to himself. Or so he thought he was talking to himself. Because it sure didn't sound like he was talking to John. John was going to head off to work in a minute, anyway. Ever since Sherlock's death, John hadn't had enough money to pay the rent so had moved out. And, even now that they were back together, just as friends, in their lovely flat at 221B, it still meant they needed to pay the rent. So, John had said he would work weekends. He didn't want to get too attached to Sherlock again, just in case something happened to either of them.

"I thought you were off to see about Lestrade's case," John wondered aloud.

"Look who's arrived," Sherlock replied simply.

John stood back, away from the cupboards and stared at the visitor. It was Mycroft. Mycroft bloody Holmes was in his – their – flat again. What's wrong? was the first thing that came to his mind. Mycroft always wanted something.

"Something wrong?" John asked hesitantly. Sherlock didn't reply, he just turned to his brother, eyebrow raised. He wanted the answer to that question too, but he wasn't about to ask.

"Can't I ever just check up on my little brother?" he asked innocently.

"No," Sherlock replied, standing up. He put his violin under his chin and started to play a quiet, calming melody. Mycroft looked down at his hands in his lap and sighed. Sherlock looked at him from the corner of his eye and suddenly, a thought registered in his mind. The music of the violin suddenly changed to a very sad, depressing melody and John raised an eyebrow.

"If you would mind, John," Sherlock said. "Could you go to work?" John realised he wasn't being rude and just wanted to be alone with his brother, so nodded slowly and grabbed his coat. "I'll be back by five," he said before he left.

Sherlock turned to his brother and looked at the back of his head. "I know what you're thinking."

"Of course you do, Sherlock. You always know what I'm thinking."

The violin music stopped suddenly and Sherlock sat back down in his armchair tiredly. "I'm listening."

"To what?" his brother asked.

"Why did you come? Wait, I know why you came. But, why now? You never did before."

"Sherlock. Ever since-" Sherlock just nodded when he thought of that awful day. The day he had to say goodbye to his friends. The day he had to 'die.' The three years after that had been the loneliest of his life. "I've tried to be a better brother to you." Sherlock knew he felt guilty about what he had done, as well. "I thought you'd be-"

"-upset." Sherlock finished. "Inside," he admitted. Mycroft simply nodded.

"So, I want you to come for a walk with me," he said simply, before standing up and going out the door.

Sherlock sighed but he had to follow. He wanted to, for once. Once he got outside, he rolled his eyes at the sight of the black limousine parked outside 221B. John probably saw it when he'd left, but by now, he was already driving away in a cab. A few people with cameras were across the road and Sherlock blocked his face. Ever since his return, nearly two months ago now, the press had been all over him, and Lestrade had even called him in for a case because someone had gotten murdered because of the crowds. Turned out it was an actual murderer, but they still had to find out who, from the press, was the murderer. Of course, it was always the one in the cap.

He got into the fancy limo and thanked the Gods that the windows were tinted.

"Not exactly much of a walk, is it, brother?"

"That will come soon," he said vaguely.

The entire ride to... where ever they were going was silent and Sherlock was starting to get impatient. He was supposed to be with Lestrade right now, on a case, but now he was-

No. This is much better than a case. To be with family is more important than anything.

 

When they finally reached the place, Sherlock gasped. The day was chilly and big storm clouds were looming over the car, about to rain down on them heavily, probably for hours on end. They had to make this quick.

They got out of the car, leaving the driver and Anthea – who had joined them for the ride, still busy texting on her blackberry – behind, and walked up to the tall, black, steel gates. They were at the cemetery. They walked silently, passing many graves of stone and marble alike. They passed by the children's section and past a small war zone for a few people who wanted to be buried near family. And when they finally reached their mother's grave, Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. He'd never visited. Never. He'd never grieved and his brother knew that but remained quiet nonetheless.

They walked over to the gravestone which was half hidden under a huge, green tree, its leaves dangling all the way down to the floor. Sherlock sniffled silently as he sat down, back resting against the tree's huge trunk, and looked at his mother's grave, which was only a few feet in front of him. Mycroft reached into his pocket and lay down an elegant, pale, pink rose in front of the grave. He then proceeded to sit beside his brother, despite how he'd get mud on his trousers. Sherlock subconsciously leaned on his brother's arm, but Mycroft didn't move or even flinch away from his younger brother's touch.

Rain soon started to pour down onto the fresh, green fields before them, and a few determined raindrops fluttered down through the tree's thick leaves and landed on their heads. Mycroft felt many raindrops drip onto his head and hands delicately but turned suddenly when he noticed something amiss. He looked down at his hand and looked back at his brother. His face was tear-stricken and he looked so vulnerable, Mycroft didn't know what to do. So, he gently moved his right arm and wrapped it securely around his brother's shoulders.

Everyone had to grieve for someone at some point. Sherlock was just a little slow with that concept. He comforted his brother until he stopped shaking violently but never moved his arm away.

Sherlock tried his hardest not to let himself make a noise. He couldn't stop himself from shuddering as silent tears fell to the ground, but he was determined not to let his brother hear him sobbing for something that happened when he was only ten years old, no matter what it was. But the fact that his own mother had died when he was so young... hurt. He'd never told anyone. Lestrade didn't know. Mrs Hudson didn't know. Even John hadn't found out, and he knew nearly everything about Sherlock... except his childhood. He never spoke of it, and neither did Mycroft, which he was silently grateful for.

After a while, the rain started to subside and they both made their way back to the car. Sherlock gingerly got in after Mycroft, though he didn't say anything else in fear of his voice breaking. In fact, he didn't say anything for the entire ride.

He nodded once when he finally arrived at the crime scene. Mycroft had gently squeezed his hand in reassurance, but neither had said anything more as he slowly got out of the car. Mycroft was always there for his brother. He just had to acknowledge it.

Mycroft watched as his brother got further and further away. He was glad his brother had understood. And he was glad he had some friends. He watched as Lestrade greeted him happily, oblivious to the red tint on Sherlock's cheeks and the tears still drying in his eyes. They both wandered off to the centre of the crime scene together, laughing all the way. Well, Mycroft didn't actually understand why they were happy when someone had been murdered, but oh well. The Holmes' are unique people and it seems Lestrade is too. Mycroft was glad they were friends.

Then he watched as Sherlock went about deducing Anderson and embarrassing him. You have to have some enemies, right?

**Author's Note:**

> The End! I'm gonna leave it there, I think. If I leave it any longer, it'll never get published. But I hope you got what I was trying to go for, and I'd love reviews! Thank you for reading.


End file.
